It's not a digital world when you've lost your passports

Everyone talks a lot about the paperless society these days, especially in my industry. We beam contact information through the air to each other, swap iPod playlists, bank on line and generally run most of the administrata of our lives by computer screen rather than printed paper. Until, that is, you lose one very important piece of paper, and your life stops.

I was supposed to be in Las Vegas last week. But 12 hours before departure I discovered the disappearance of my passport case, helpfully containing both my American and British passports. I spent the next seven hours ripping the house apart and cleaning obsessively, convinced that the case must have fallen or been kicked someplace. Or put someplace stupid like in the refrigerator in a moment of absent mindedness. By evening I had to admit defeat, assuming that somehow the passports had been mixed up with a pile of rubbish and carted out for the Thursday morning pick up. At that point, I had to write the mortifying email to my management chain explaining that I would not be in Vegas because I was what the Brits call "a complete numpty".

OK, I didn't really label myself. I figured they were doing that for me.

Thus I spent the week not only feeling badly that I was missing the corporate extravaganza of the year, but experiencing the dubious pleasures of TWO countries' passport administration operations.

Most Brits won't believe this, but the British Home Office won this contest hands down. A model of efficiency, their web site offered a 24/7 helpline staffed by efficient and friendly Welsh people who told me exactly what I needed to do, where I needed to pick up forms, and when to show up at the Home Office in London. Arriving exactly when told, I was through security in five minutes, at the check in desk instantaneously and directed upstairs to the waiting room. Less than five minutes later I was called to a window where a pleasant woman checked my forms and offered me a four hour turn-around service for an additional £20. Done.

The Americans weren't bad, but a little more labourious all around. Check the web site and it makes a big deal of the need to come to the embassy in person. Unfortunately, you have to read to the end of the page (which I didn't) to find that you won't be let in without a reservation. I strolled over to the embassy direct from the Home Office, hoping to get everything done in one day. No way. The brawny security guard out front, who clearly believed he was keeping the world safe for democracy, wasn't letting me anywhere near the place. I had to go home, get on line and make an appointment using the internet-based booking system.

With the British passport sorted, I really didn't need the American one for a month. So I didn't anticipate problems. 'Til a entered the booking system. First available appointment: while I'm on hols in Luxembourg. Second available appointment: In the middle of a critical corporate meeting. Third available appointment: Five days before leaving for St. Louis. Not good.

So I clicked on the "emergency travel" button. I could prove that I was leaving the country on 4 July; they didn't need to know that I could get in and out courtesy of her Majesty. That got me an appointment on 30 June. And an emergency passport within three hours. But three hours in which I was locked in to the Embassy waiting room, all electronic equipment having been lifted off me and unable to leave. So much for the chance to catch up on email while waiting. The whole American experience yielded an emergency passport, good for one year and redeemable for no extra cost for a permanent one as long as I fill out more paperwork and can give up with temporary for three weeks. Less ideal that the Home Office wizardry, but still not bad.

So, lesson learned. I will never postpone putting away my passports again. Because no matter how digital we think the world might be, without that little piece of paper you are truly out of comission.